


you push and you pull and you tell yourself no

by forcynics



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/F, background alec/magnus, references to alec/lydia arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Isabelle, that was an extremely unprofessional mistake,” she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you push and you pull and you tell yourself no

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt "this is the last time" at [the shadowhunters ficathon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html)

 

 

 

It starts off with a file of paperwork and a bottle of wine. 

Isabelle shows up at Lydia’s office with both on a Friday night, drops the file on Lydia’s desk (her mother’s desk, it’s hard not to still think). 

Lydia doesn’t look up from the report she’s filling out. Her ponytail’s pulled back taut and sleek, there's not a single hair loose from the braid tucked into it, and her make-up is still impeccable despite the late hour, except for a hint of shadows under her eyes.

“I thought you could use a break,” Isabelle announces, and that makes her look up, raising one eyebrow at the bottle of wine.

They’ve been trying to track down Valentine’s whereabouts, trying to get any sort of edge on him or any hint of what he might be planning next, but it’s yielded frustratingly little results so far and Isabelle knows all of the pressure is falling directly on Lydia’s shoulders. 

Lydia narrows her eyes, curls her lip like she’s about to reprimand Isabelle, but then her shoulders slump and she leans back in her chair, pushes back from the desk.

“You’re probably right,” she admits, slowly, like she's not pleased to admit it. Her mouth is pursed and her eyes are suspicious.

Isabelle grins, fetches a pair of wineglasses from the cabinet in the corner – she knows this office, knows this whole building better than Lydia ever could, but she doesn’t focus on that.

She perches on the corner of the desk and pours them each a glass, and she tries to pry what she can out of Lydia – what she thinks of the New York Institute, what she thinks of all of them, what the _Clave_ thinks of all of them. 

Lydia doesn’t give anything away, just says that she likes New York more than she thought she would, that she’s spent time at so many Institutes – London, Los Angeles, Lisbon – her mouth goes a little sad at that, and she takes a long sip of wine before changing the subject.

Isabelle still isn’t sure exactly what she makes of her by the time they reach the end of the bottle. Lydia seems a little surprised when it’s empty, a little embarrassed. Her cheeks are flushed and her ponytail’s been pulled a little loose from leaning back in her chair.

She gets to her feet, and she trips into Isabelle, catches herself with a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder, and Isabelle is about to say that they should probably both get some rest, when Lydia kisses her, warm and sudden and soft.

Isabelle relaxes into it, curls her fingers into the front of Lydia’s blouse and kisses her back until the other girl pulls away just as suddenly.

“I don’t know what—I shouldn’t have—” Lydia shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Isabelle, that was an extremely unprofessional mistake,” she says.

She flees the office quickly, leaving Isabelle sitting on the desk alone, one hand on her mouth and a million new ideas in her head.

 

 

 

Lydia picks Isabelle to accompany her on official business, meeting a warlock in the city who thinks he might know something about where Valentine’s hiding out.

It turns out to be probably useless, just a rumour he heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, but Lydia takes detailed notes anyway, thanks him for his time and cooperation.

They’re on their way back to the Institute, taking a shortcut through a narrow alley, when the demon finds them.

It materializes from nowhere, or slips out from behind a dumpster, Isabelle can’t tell, it’s just _there_ suddenly. Lydia reacts first, stele whipping out and slashing too fast to follow, severing one of the tentacles reaching out for her.

There’s a low hiss from the demon – it’s slimy and has rows and rows of teeth and more tentacles still grabbing at them as it slithers over the asphalt. Lydia slashes through another tentacle, and Isabelle flings out her whip with a sharp flick of her wrist. It wraps around the demon’s thick neck, and she gives a sharp pull, severing its head from its body. 

It disappears in a burst of golden sparks, leaving Lydia and Isabelle still startled and trying to catch their breath. Isabelle curls her whip back around her wrist.

“That was brilliant,” Lydia says a second later, staring at the shining coils of the whip. Her eyes flick up to meet Isabelle’s and she strides towards her, shoving her stele back into her belt.

Lydia gaze is so sharp it makes Isabelle uncomfortable, uncertain where this going. She’s hoping, maybe—

“You’re a lot more than I expected, Isabelle Lightwood,” Lydia says when she’s right in front of her, and she doesn’t sound nearly as brisk and businesslike as Isabelle’s grown used to hearing, just startlingly honest and maybe even a little in awe, and Isabelle is struck by the compliment. 

She can feel her cheeks flushing red, a burst of something hot and proud in her chest, and then—

She doesn’t even know who kisses who first.

But then Lydia’s pressing her up against the wall of the alley, and Isabelle’s hands have slid under her shirt, and Lydia’s mouth is burning on hers, and Isabelle thinks _devouring._

This kiss lasts longer than the last one, but when Lydia finally steps back, panting, the guilt in her eyes is all too familiar and Isabelle’s stomach sinks.

“We really shouldn’t—” Lydia starts to say, and Isabelle rolls her eyes.

“Why not?” she snaps. “Because of you and Alec? We both know that’s not even real, it’s not like you can’t kiss someone else—”

Lydia takes another step back, and her expression stiffens like Isabelle’s just slapped her, enough that Isabelle stops talking.

“Someone else, maybe,” Lydia finally says. “Not someone who’s going to be my _sister-in-law_ , not someone I’m supposed to be _supervising._ ” She bites her lip, and her expression does soften then, a little regretful. 

“Not you, Isabelle.”

 

 

 

Isabelle isn’t entirely sure if she still wants to kiss Lydia again because, well, _she wants to kiss Lydia again_ , or if it’s mostly because Lydia said _not you_ and she hates being told she can’t have what she wants.

If it’s just the latter, she knows it’ll pass quickly enough, as soon as something new distracts her. If it’s the former, then it looks like she’ll be stuck in a permanent state of frustration, because she sees Lydia every day, but only in small minutes here and there, and nothing else has happened.

Lydia doesn’t partner with her again.

She takes Alec or Jace when she goes into the city, leaves Isabelle to train with Clary in the Institute, and maybe that gets under Isabelle’s skin the most, that she’s just being written off now, like she can’t be trusted to be _professional_ anymore even though she got the message loud and clear.

Lydia asks Isabelle to fill out daily reports on Clary’s training and the progress she’s making, and that becomes their main interaction – Isabelle leaving a file on Lydia’s desk at the end of the day and Lydia thanking her politely.

Isabelle’s parents have decided to throw Alec and Lydia an engagement party this upcoming Saturday, and Isabelle’s half-dreading it, half-looking forward to being in the same room as Lydia for more than a few minutes.

She’s trying on a dress in her room Friday night when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she calls out, too busy straightening out her dress and inspecting her reflection in the mirror. The dress is dark red, with a low back – not as exposed as what she might have worn a few weeks ago, but still more revealing than anything she’d normally wear around the Institute these days, and she’s ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that’s wondering if it will get Lydia’s attention.

Her bedroom door opens, and she doesn’t turn her head, but she sees in the mirror when Lydia steps into the room behind her and draws up short.

“Oh—” she starts to say, sounding surprised in a way that makes Isabelle feel smug for a second, even if her stomach dropped a little bit when Lydia stepped into the room. She’s barely seen her all week.

“You never dropped off your training reports today.” Lydia sounds a little stiff, hand remaining on the doorknob. She’s still wearing her office clothes, entirely professional in a fitted black blazer and pointy shoes. 

Lydia hadn’t been in her office earlier when Isabelle came by to drop off the report, and instead of just leaving it on her desk she’d wanted to wait until the other girl was around.

“I completely forgot about it,” Isabelle lies. “Sorry. It’s right on my dresser.” She nods her head towards it, but she still doesn’t turn around, keeps fiddling with her dress like an excuse.

Lydia starts to cross the room, and Isabelle blurts out “Could you zip me up?” before she can stop herself. Lydia freezes, and Isabelle raises an eyebrow at her reflection, at Lydia’s reflection, and angles her back toward the other girl.

She’d meant for it to sound flirty, but it comes out too harsh for that, more of a dare.

Lydia steps closer, lips pressed together, straight-backed. She doesn’t say anything, but she steps up right behind Isabelle, zips up the dress at the small of her back. Her fingertips brush Isabelle’s hip, and she doesn’t take her hand away.

“It’s a very nice dress,” she finally says, and Isabelle meets her eyes in the mirror and turns around before she can help it. Lydia pulls her hand away, but she doesn’t step back. Isabelle could count her freckles if she wasn’t so distracted by the lack of space between them.

“Isabelle—” Lydia starts to say, sounding pained by it, but Isabelle interrupts her.

“I know,” she says quickly. “You think this is a bad idea, you think _I’m_ a bad idea, and it could never work, but—I still want to kiss you again.” She didn’t know if she meant to say that, didn’t know where that sentence was going, but, there it is. “I get it,” she continues quickly, needs to move along instead of leaving those words just hanging there— “You have your arrangement and your responsibilities and the Institute and it’s complicated and—”

Lydia kisses her. Her hands settle on Isabelle’s waist and pull her closer, and her lips part Isabelle’s and her mouth is so warm. 

It’s a tentative kiss, a little bit soft and a little bit sad, because Isabelle knows now that she doesn’t just want Lydia because she wants to prove a point, she just _wants_ her, because Lydia is sharp and deadly and kissing her makes Isabelle feel dizzy.

Lydia pulls away from her, inevitably. 

There are a million apologies ready in her crumpled expression, but Isabelle doesn’t give her a chance to say it, to tell her _again_ that this can’t happen _again_.

“I get it,” she says, and she pulls herself away from Lydia too, stalks over to her dresser and grabs the report.

“Here.” She doesn’t go back to Lydia, just stretches out her hand instead. “This is what you came for, right?” The last part is a little unnecessary, a little cruel, and Isabelle feels guilty when Lydia flinches, but she doesn’t soften herself, doesn’t change the firm line of her mouth or her straight posture.

Lydia doesn’t say anything, just takes the report and leaves, closes the door behind her.

Isabelle stares at the door, fists clenched and posture weakening. She feels angry and sad and guilty all at once and none of it is useful. None of it changes a damn thing.

She takes her dress off, fingers fumbling on the zipper, and throws it on the floor, and she sits down on her bed and wishes she could stop wanting things she can’t have.

 

 

 

The engagement party is small and refined and horribly dull. 

Isabelle wears a different dress. Black lace with a high neck and long sleeves. She wears dark lipstick that smudges on her champagne glass when she gulps it down too quickly.

She was right to ditch the red dress, right to forget about trying to get Lydia’s attention. What did she think, if she looked ravishing enough at one party it would tempt Lydia away from all her stern determination and ambitions? 

It was childish thinking. This whole thing has been childish thinking.

Lydia’s wearing a silvery dress with thin straps. Her hair is down and there are pearls hanging from her ears, and they swing when she laughs at something Alec says, hand lightly on his arm. Even if Isabelle had still been smugly hoping to steal Lydia's attention, every hope would be gone, because she's the one who can't stop staring at Lydia. She wants her so much, and it's not fair, none of this is fair, and it makes her wants to smash the glass of champagne in her hand.

Lydia hasn’t looked at Isabelle once. 

Isabelle finishes her champagne and gets herself another glass. She makes conversation with Clary, who happens to be positioned the furthest away from Lydia out of everyone in the room.

Magnus is at the party, to Isabelle’s surprise. Her mother was surprised too, frowned when she saw him, but Isabelle told her that he’s a good friend of Clary’s, that he provided helpful services to the Institute while they were tracking down the Mortal Cup. 

Isabelle watches Magnus, watches the low conversations between him and Alec and Lydia, watches their smiles and can’t tell if any of it is faked. She’s usually better at that.

If it’s not complicated with Magnus, then it shouldn’t be complicated with _her_ , she thinks, but she’s not about to plead her case again, not about to let Lydia kiss her and apologize for it again and again and again.

The party dwindles until it’s only Isabelle, Clary, and Jace remaining, and then they both tell her they need to get to sleep and she’s left with an empty champagne glass and no company to distract her from everything she wants.

She wanders back to her bedroom, takes her time, and when she gets there, there’s a girl in a silver dress sitting outside her door.

“Lydia?” Isabelle stops.

She hates the excitement in her pulse at the sight of her, hates the yearning in her stomach, hates that she knows exactly how this is going to go and she still wants it.

Lydia looks up at her, with watery eyes that startle Isabelle. 

“Can we talk?” she asks quietly, and Isabelle just nods, too bewildered to do anything yet except open her door and lead Lydia inside the room. They sit down on her bed, and Lydia folds her hands in her lap, fiddling for a long moment before she speaks up. 

“I don’t want to kiss someone else,” she says in a shaky voice, and Isabelle has a moment of panicked thinking that Lydia is unhappy with the arrangement with Alec, that she wants him properly even though he’ll never want her back—but Lydia is looking at her so determinedly, and she realizes _she doesn’t want to kiss someone else who isn’t_ me.

“Are you drunk?” She can’t help asking, can’t help the sudden urge to throw up defences against the very thing she wants, because suddenly Lydia’s looking at her like that and her mouth’s gone dry.

Lydia shakes her head quickly. She reaches for Isabelle’s hand, and Isabelle lets her take it.

“I haven’t wanted anyone since John,” she says quietly. “There was a time I didn’t think I would. And then you came into my office and you tried to figure me out and I wanted to kiss you, so I did. And I haven’t been able to stop wanting that, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Isabelle squeezes her fingers. Her throat’s tightened up and she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, saying anything that will shatter this moment and change Lydia’s mind. She’s waiting for it, the shake of her head, the apologies, the rejection, all of it.

But it isn’t coming. 

She inches closer, and Lydia doesn’t move away.

“I’m a bad idea too, Isabelle,” she says with a shaky laugh. “This is all too complicated, but I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you, so if you still want me—”

Isabelle kisses her. It’s hard this time, a sudden bursting in her chest and every bit of her body rushing into it, hands curling in Lydia’s silver dress, mouth pressing desperately to hers, wanting to taste all of her and reveling in the fact that she’s _allowed_ to want, finally, and she’s so, so scared that it’s going to all slip out of her hands.

Her heart pounds against her ribs when Lydia’s hands cup her face; her chest goes warm when Lydia kisses her back like she’s been wanting this just as horribly as Isabelle; her breath leaves her when they fall back into her bed still kissing, still clinging to each other, and Lydia isn’t pulling away or apologizing for any of it.

“You can stay here,” Isabelle tells Lydia, minutes later, when they’re still curled together in her bed. She gulps. “Not… I just mean, you can just _stay_. If you want.”

She can’t quite ask her to, can’t quite say _please_. It feels too dangerous, too weak, and she doesn’t want to hear more apologies.

“Okay,” Lydia says, and she looks a little unsure when she says it, like maybe she’s just as terrified of this. She bites her lip even as she curls her arm around Isabelle’s waist. She smiles, and Isabelle tries to believe it. 

Isabelle closes her eyes and tries not to be scared as she falls asleep.

 

 

 

Isabelle wakes up in her dress from the night before, hot and uncomfortable. 

She doesn’t remember at first, and then she does, and her heart plummets. If she rolls over right now, there is every chance that she will find a note, _I’m sorry_ written out in Lydia’s perfectly structured handwriting. 

Isabelle clenches her fists and steels her furiously beating heart and sneaks a glance. 

Lydia’s hair is more tangled than she’s ever seen it before, and the straps of her silver dress have slid down her shoulders. She’s fast asleep, and it seems impossible that she’s actually here, in Isabelle’s bed.

Isabelle’s heart slows, and she rolls towards her, and she curls up close. 

She closes her eyes again, and this time it scares her a little less.

 

 

 


End file.
